Or what?

Heimo Zobernig, now at Simon Lee

Heimo Zobernig, now at Simon Lee, London

Allow me a moment to comment on this confounding binarism I find sandwiched between my toes.

It’s often called “black and white” thinking – the penchant of some people (me) to frame solutions in “either/or” scenarios. Do you want the pink one or the blue? This is either good or it’s bad. It’s the best thing that ever happened, or the worst. Whitman or Dickinson? Male or Female?

I have a major problem with binarism – it’s FALSE. The word “or” should be the warning light – the wake-up-and-smell-the-coffee someone is boxing up the choices. I don’t want cream or sugar – I want both, or stevia, maybe tea. A nice cup of lapsang souchong, perhaps? If we can generate multiple choice in our drinks, what about for other life challenges.

OR limits creativity to generate multiple solutions. I regularly pick up an everyday object (a mug) and think, “what could this be other than mug?” (vase, penny jar, pencil stand, plant pot, light fixture, toad house, soup or cereal bowl, jewelry holder, baling bucket, soil scoop, bug catcher, metaphysical mood meter (is glass half empty/half full?), inspiration piece, homing beacon)

I can see dividing imagined best case/worst case scenarios into a tidy binarism. To envision yourself toward a goal (sometimes frustrating) or  to prepare yourself for the worst. Possibly helpful.

What about in-betweens? Hello! options not mentioned. Consider your job, done in a different way, in a different place. What’s the yellow solution, the blue idea, the green daydream? What if your choosing were colors, we wouldn’t settle for just black or white.

Yes there’s something called option anxiety  – so we distill choices down to two. To short cut an otherwise too lengthy decision making process. Point taken. But.

Do you want limits or unlimited ? I’m kicking OR to the curb.


Gobble

Miyoko Ito

Miyoko Ito

Where are you underneath

the holiday  –  yellow dogpile lines?

lemon lips. Green bean, durkee onion kiss.

I smell the turkey.

Is it done?

cavort you sweet potatoes

Stuff, Stuffed, Stuffing

and thanks for


10 am

Louise Borgeios, 10 am is when you come to me

Louise Borgeios, 10 am is when you come to me, 2006

(Series of hand paintings Louise did about the daily arrival of her long time assistant Jerry)

10 am is when you come to me.

when the clockbeast, its too slow

hands finally pass on

when my toes press to open sand

when this aged crust

strips away to white horizon

the air breathes my name

fingers unbind

your hands bring me yet

sacred red hours

Full installation

Full installation


Personal Margins

Barnett Newman, 18 Cantos, 1963-1964, a lithograph portfolio of 18 pages and one cover page

Barnett Newman, 18 Cantos, 1963-1964, a lithograph portfolio of 18 pages and one cover page

I should say that it was the margins made in printing a lithographic stone that magnetized the challenge for me from the very beginning. No matter what one does, no matter how completely one works the stone (and I have always worked the stone, as soon as it is printed) makes an imprint that is surrounded by inevitable white margins. I would create a totality only to find it change after it was printed-into another totality…There is always the intrusion of the paper frame. To crop the extruding paper or to cover it with a mat or to eliminate all of the margins by “bleeding” is an evasion of this fact. It is like cropping to make a painting. It is success by mutilation…The struggle to overcome this intrusion-to give the imprint its necessary scale so that it could have its fullest expression, so that it would not be crushed by the paper margin and still have a margin- that was the challenge for me. That is why each canto has its own personal margins…These eighteen cantos are then single, individual expressions, each with its unique difference.

-Barnett Newman, “Preface to 18 Cantos,” 1964

Canto XIV 1963-4 by Barnett Newman 1905-1970

Canto XIV 1963-4 by Barnett Newman 1905-1970


Dish

Josef Albers,  Homage to Square, collection

“I’m not paying ‘homage to the square’. It’s only the dish I serve my craziness about color in.”

Josef Albers (1888-1976)


Closet

Marc Wanicko, Icon nº1

Marc Wanicko, Icon nº1

(third in a series of ghost stories)

He always locks it when he leaves on business. I know it’s off limits. But I can’t help wondering what hides there. I searched the key many times, curious worm darkmawing  my chest. But always empty handed.

I’m glad when he leaves town for business, a hurricane here, a revolt there. Massacres too. He assures me there’s always a demand for his skills and one day I’ll take over the family business.

When he comes home he’s so tired, his hands feel of stone. I glance up into his eyes, lost. Can’t seem to find him in shadows. His cheeks move higher on his face.

“This job is killing me,” he sighs. He brings home a dark air, some long wind foreboding and I shiver. He dusts my hair with a withered hand and I gasp. A sinking deep. A feeling to run. To scream, but my body too still. too still.

He opens a beer. Sits mute on the table. Unharmed. Tie flung aside and sunk into the recliner. His bones, a heap. Fingers dripping over arm rests. And I can’t see who I am looking at. I have forgotten.

I notice behind him the door to his room sliced open.

That dark wind swirls me. To the closet door standing –  cracked.  No heart in my chest. I see into space Dusk outlined  souls and glint of sicklesteel and fire. Fear and trembling and teeth scattered round. My teeth falling. Then vast nothing

of no end

“I hoped you wouldn’t see this, yet”

I jump- skin out of pocket, arms tight held around me. The darkness horrible and bright. Faint smells of matches extinguished and scentless nothing.

“This is the family business?”

And his eyes stone sink back into a fleshless skull. my father, now the mask of Death.

“soon this will all be yours”


Ball

Ghazal Bigdeloo, the woman

Ghazal Bigdeloo, the woman

(Second in a series of ghost stories)

Her half-child back and half-full sack turns, (the sagging sun too tired of the day) and sees a gloaming shade at the field’s far edge.  Trudges over to lay down under winded branches, a sleeping bed of white frogfruit. To forget she’s alone. To forget her fingers purple cracked.

An owl hoots at the secret mouse and she wakes in a pool of moon. Shivers. The field spreads a dark stain. A truck forgot, she and the half picked bag. Forgotten. Someone should come for her, of course they should. Of course they would.

Panic chews at her mouth. Closed night all around. Darkness in her eyes and shivers heat to scream.

Only blind woods hears. Hearing

a melodic strain, low and thin. Silver keys thread the dark. Is it a waltz? She turns shadow eyes to a glow. Follows the music through undergrowth. Scrape and claw. She stumbles and pitched to ground, looks up in the foil moon.

  A coach.

Filigree door swinging open and seated on the velvet – a crystal slipper. Diamond bright. Leather tuft interior glows pearl. Melody grows with her breath

so close in.

Steps into the coach, how lovely the shoe.

Beauty. Ahhh.

Wedges foot in. Wrought toes pained. But, her hands soft, now French manicured. Her lips pout, red and full. Money rustle of silk and wrapped fur. The smell of rich and clapping for the belle of the ball.

Click door shut.

Glass shoe cold. And colder. Colding and happy and pain. Coursing up and down and into her blood, turns her breath hard. Crystal prisms. Symphonic volt and tympani drums.

Two mornings from now they find her body – chill. Toes broken back. Officer suspects foul play. An old glass slipper inside an overlarge pumpkin rolls away. A belly full of blood.